


Sharkey's End

by Ghyste



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Complete, F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:30:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghyste/pseuds/Ghyste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The real reason that Lobelia ended up languishing in the Lockholes!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharkey's End

If truth be told, things had not gone precisely as planned since Lobelia had finally got her foot in the door of Bag End. After nearly eighty years of waiting, after all those false starts and disappointments, didn’t she deserve to have things her own way for once? 

It seemed not.

For a start, she wasn’t even living in Bag End anymore as Lotho had suggested that she move out for a short time while he carried out some improvements. It wasn’t the improvements that bothered Lobelia, because Bag End certainly needed them - its previous owner having seen fit to leave behind enough ridiculous mathoms that even the most generous of hobbits (amongst which she could hardly be numbered) couldn’t have dispensed them in less than ten years. No, it wasn’t the improvements; it was the fact that her son kept coming up with reasons why she shouldn’t move back. 

Then there was her son himself, the light of her life who had taken to avoiding her like she was some sort of flighty Brandybuck ne’er-do-well rather than his own dear mother. She hadn’t seen him for days now and had decided to do something about it. Thus it was that the morning found her making her way determinedly towards Bag End to demand that she should be readmitted to hearth and home, and this time she would brook no refusal.

***

Whilst it would have been of little comfort to Lobelia, the current Master of Bag End (who was not, in fact, her darling boy) was equally disgruntled - not least because he couldn’t do anything without banging his head on the absurdly low ceilings in the place. If it had not been for the need to triumph over his thrice-cursed nemeses Saruman would never have come to a backwater place like this, and then they wouldn’t have been able to inflict their absurd architecture on him on top of everything else.

His nemeses – he shuddered to think how low he had fallen. Of course, every good would-be world ruler needed a nemesis or two, but it was really rather embarrassing for someone of his previous status to have nemeses this small. Melkor had had Tulkas and the cream of the Noldor and though Sauron had finally been defeated by one of the gutter-rats, he’d had a fairly good innings in the past and had never had to succumb to the indignity of being shut up in his tower by a bunch of talking trees and then having to resort to plotting against creatures that only came up to his navel.

Speaking of navels, he could no longer ignore the unpalatable truth that since his defeat at Gandalf’s hand and the loss of his powers he was becoming increasingly human and prey to their baser urges. Whilst he so far managed to find distractions from the petty irritations of the place, this new itch was one that was going to be difficult to scratch given the appallingly bad company that the place had to offer. He could easily force one of the locals into his bed, and some of the ones with their priorities in the right place might even welcome the opportunity to improve their circumstances, but he needed something more from a bed partner than could be provided by some illiterate yokel - even the Uruk-hai had had a better line in conversation than these halflings, though possibly worse breath.

He was abruptly distracted from his reveries by the clamour of voices from the hallway and the patter of feet heading in his direction - couldn’t an increasingly former Maia even be allowed to brood in peace? 

He flung open the door, planning to unleash a tirade at Wormtongue, only to have someone barrel into his midriff and drive the breath from his lungs. Irritated beyond words, he grasped the offender’s shoulder, dislodged the creature’s rather sharp nose from its resting place just below his ribs, and prepared to fling it against the nearest wall. These plans were abruptly derailed when a set of teeth even sharper than the nose closed upon his wrist with the deathlike grip of a ferret and what appeared to be an umbrella tangled with the bottom of his robe and threatened to send him sprawling.

Unable to loose himself he vented his spleen once more upon the luckless Wormtongue: “What,” he said ”is this, and why is it in my home?”

The question had an unexpected effect as the creature’s teeth loosed their hold and it spat: ”This is not your home. This is my home.”

Taking a closer look, Saruman realised that the creature was, in fact, female. Not a particularly alluring female, it has to be said, but a female nonetheless. A female who was at this present moment looking at him with the kind of venom that he had rarely encountered. It was really rather impressive in its way and he felt his curiosity piqued.

“And who might you be?” he asked.

Levelling the umbrella at his chest, the creature announced: “I am Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, Mistress of Bag End, and I demand to see my son at once.”

So, thought Saruman, this was Lotho’s mother. She was a distinct improvement upon her spineless and pimply whelp, though that was hardly saying much. She certainly had the kind of spirit that was sadly lacking from the bulk of her compatriots and though she was not particularly decorative, he decided upon a whim that she would do to while away a few minutes… or maybe more.

“Gríma will go and fetch your son, dear lady, and in the meantime we shall get better acquainted.” He gestured dismissively at Wormtongue, and then turned to usher Lobelia into the parlour. 

Unfortunately, Lobelia appeared in no mood to be ushered anywhere. “And who might you be?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“My men call me Sharkey, but you may call me Saruman,” he accompanied the words with a slight bow and a friendly smile, which apparently failed to have the desired effect.

“And what are you doing in my home?” 

“I am a long time business acquaintance of your esteemed son,” said Saruman, speaking truthfully about the connection but considerably less so about the esteem. “A matter of mutual interest brought me in this direction and he was kind enough to offer me hospitality.”

Lobelia harrumphed. “Business acquaintance? So, he would offer a mere business acquaintance hospitality, while his own mother is homeless? Just wait until I get my hands on him.”

This was not entirely encouraging, but Saruman decided that the distraction she provided was worth the effort – particularly if he got to watch her verbally dismember the appalling Lotho afterwards 

“Once Gríma has located your son you may do as you wish,” he said, “but for now, let us wait in comfort.” He led the way into the parlour and settled a still bristling Lobelia and her doughty umbrella into a chair before turning to a table upon which was placed an open bottle of Old Winyards and several of the finest glasses to be had in the locale. 

“May I offer you some refreshment?” he asked.

“Wine?” said Lobelia, “my son doesn’t hold with that sort of thing any more.”

“Ah,” said Saruman, “your son quite rightly recognises the damage that drink can have upon those of small wit, but I hardly think that that can apply to you or I.”

“Well,” said Lobelia, “if you put it like that…”

Saruman poured a couple of glasses of the rich red wine and passed one to his guest before seating himself rather gingerly on the settle. If there was one thing he had to do before he spent another day in this benighted place it was to have a chair of appropriate proportions constructed, maybe out of one of those trees that Lotho had been so busily chopping down.

“To new friends,” he said, raising his glass to her.

Lobelia glared at him, but she still drank the wine – she’d been disappointed that the previous occupant had cleared the cellars before he had left, so she certainly wasn’t going to waste this glass regardless of whom it was that had provided it.

Saruman smiled, as if knowing what was going through her mind, but after a few swallows the over familiarity didn’t irritate her nearly as much as it should have done. Yes, this was very fine wine indeed, just what she needed to relax after the trials and tribulations of the day.

Seeing the effect of the wine, Saruman began to talk - small talk of little everyday things and Lobelia soon ceased to hear the words as the spell of his voice mixed with the velvety texture of the fine wine to weave a web of deceit about her. However, so complete was her relaxation that the crystal glass fell from her grasp and as it shattered upon the floor, shattered also the enchantment. As the shadows lifted from her mind, Lobelia leapt to her feet. “What are you?” she demanded, seemingly impervious to the fear that would have cowed a lesser character.

Saruman’s admiration for the creature only grew the more and he made his decision – he had to have her. 

“To those who oppose me, I am death. But,” he added, more persuasively, “ to those who please me, I can be… generous.”

Lobelia drew herself up to her full height, small though it was compared to his, and declared: ”I am no strumpet; so kindly do not mistake me for one. I am a Bracegirdle of Hardbottle.”

“I do not take you for a strumpet, dear lady,” he said, “I take you for a kindred spirit.”

Lobelia sniffed dismissively.

“It is true, we are two of a kind – how else could you have thrown off my will so easily? We both of us see beyond this narrow world to how things should be, how things would be had we the power to order them as we would.” He paused and then gently rested one hand upon Lobelia’s bony shoulder. “Through me, you could have that power for I have been lonely here and would have someone of like mind with whom to share my reign,” his voice became seductive, “to share my… bed.” 

Counting upon the magic of his voice to do the rest of the work for him, Saruman spread his arms wide. “Together we will conquer all. Together we will be magnificent.”

Lobelia regarded him for a moment before taking the only possible course of action - jabbing him in the balls with the pointy end of her umbrella. 

Saruman let forth a bloodcurdling shriek and bent over to clutch desperately at his mistreated groin wishing, not for the first time, that the Valar hadn’t insisted on him being quite so authentically corporeal. Alas, the time for wishing was short-lived as, in a move that would have done one of the Dúnedain proud, Lobelia reversed her grip on the umbrella and whacked him over his now conveniently located head with the handle.

As he lay on the floor Saruman wished that he could call curses down upon her with the ease that he had once possessed, but as it was all that he could do was to watch her heels as she stalked out of the room.

***

Thus it was that Lobelia was still spoiling for a fight as she made her way down the lane and came face to face with a band of ruffians manhandling a big cart in the direction of Bag End and taking up all of the room. In no mood to be trifled with, she refused to scramble around on the verge and planted herself firmly in the middle of the track.

“Stand aside, ” ordered the leading ruffian.

Completely ignoring this, Lobelia scowled and stalked towards him. “Where are you going?” she asked in commanding tones.

“To Bag End,” he said, her imperious manner momentarily causing him to revert to the deferential tones that he had not used since the days when his mother used to clip him round the ears for pulling his sister’s hair.

Lobelia’s eyes narrowed and the ruffian took a step backwards, only to find his retreat blocked by his associates who had come up behind him to witness the spectacle.

“What for?” 

“To put up some sheds for Sharkey,” he muttered, much to the derision of his mates who were beginning to get bored now that the novelty of their mate being harangued by a pint-sized harridan was wearing off. They knew which side their bread was buttered on and it would fall face downwards if they didn’t get this load up to Bag End pretty sharpish. 

Uncaring of the change in mood, Lobelia ploughed on regardless. “Who said you could?”

“Sharkey,” yelled a voice from the rear of the group. “So get out o’ the road, old hagling!”

“I’ll give you Sharkey, you dirty thieving ruffians!” she cried and ran at the leader brandishing her faithful umbrella. Sadly, unlike their master, the ruffians were not distracted by visions of glory and thus her attack lacked the element of surprise that had aided her earlier. Moreover, this time round the odds were six to one against and they quickly subdued her and flung her into the back of the cart that presently resumed its briefly interrupted journey.

Stopping at the gate to Bag End, the leader flung Lobelia over his shoulder, strode inside and deposited her in a heap at Saruman’s feet.

“Hey Sharkey, look what we found along the way. Seems like this old crone’s none too pleased with you.”

Saruman turned her over with his foot. “Back so soon?” he said. “If you’re hoping for a repeat of my previous offer you’re going to be disappointed.” 

Turning to the ruffian he smiled and gave the order: “Take her to the Lockholes… and let her rot.”


End file.
